


A Modest Proposal

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Post-Game, Proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: “You know…” Varric says. He doesn’t look Hawke in the eye, keeps his gaze focused on the bags and boxes of accumulated shit he’s… well, accumulated, during his tenure with the Inquisition.“Yeah?”“I’m just saying,” Varric tries again, fails, stops.Varric comes up with a plan.
Relationships: Hawke/Varric Tethras, Varric Tethras/Male Hawke
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	A Modest Proposal

“You know…” Varric says. He doesn’t look Hawke in the eye, keeps his gaze focused on the bags and boxes of accumulated shit he’s… well, accumulated, during his tenure with the Inquisition.

“Yeah?” 

“I’m just saying,” Varric tries again, fails, stops.

Hawke snorts from his position, draped out along the spartan lines of Varric’s bed, reading some schlocky piece of something or another. “You gonna finish that idea anytime soon, old man?” 

He’s finished his own packing, but Hawke didn’t have a lot to begin with. Living on the run doesn’t exactly lend itself to lavish outfits and extra shit to carry around. 

Varric takes a steadying breath. “Got a letter from Red a couple days ago,” he says, “said she’s hearing a lot of sentiment for a run for Viscount now that the Inquisition is wrapping up.” 

“Who–Aveline?”

“No–wait, do you think she’d do it?”

“I think she’d rather lop her sword-arm off than be Viscountess.” Hawke laughs, bold and infectious like they didn’t just save the world not a month ago. “So, what’s Aveline got to say?”

“She says that Kirkwall wants me to be Viscount.”

Varric bets he could hear a pin drop in the silence that ensues. He doesn’t look up from where he wraps up more of his clothes. “Hawke?” 

“Holy shit,” Hawke breathes. “Stars and void, Varric, are you going to say no?” 

“No–I mean, I haven’t decided yet. Do I want to be viscount? Not really. You couldn’t pay me enough to be in that seat. It would fuck with my writing habits, and I like sleeping in whenever I want. But… the alternatives. Do I want any of those jackasses in the Keep? If the Qunari came back, especially after the shit at the Storm Coast last year, do I want anyone else in that chair? Not really, no.”

He sighs and stuffs a fur-lined cloak unceremoniously into a leather bag, uncaring of the wince he sees in his peripheral vision. “Dammit, Hawke. I’ve been thinking about this for days and still am no closer to an answer, and my wagon leaves tomorrow.”

“Big decision, yeah,” Hawke says, a bit breathless. He coughs. “You could just leave them all to it. Kirkwall’s a shithole, you’ve said it as long as I’ve known you.”

“Yeah,” Varric hurries to answer, “but it’s my shithole.”

“And there’s your answer, I guess.” Hawke coughs, clears his throat with a grunt. “So, now what? You’ll get that big fancy crown.” 

“You could come with me.” The words fall from Varric’s mouth without his say-so, but he can’t regret them, not after all these years, not after all their letters. Hawke would be welcome in Kirkwall once more–and if he wasn’t, well, Varric would be Viscount, and could say to fuck them all.

Hawke sputters. “What?” 

“You heard me.” The idea grows on him. Varric turns to Hawke, all smiles, only to find him stricken, pale. “C’mon, Hawke,” Varric cajoles. “it’d be like old times, ‘cept we both get fancy hats.”

“…wait,” Hawke mutters. He pinches his nose. “You’re not just asking me to come back to that shithole, but to come back. With you. As… as someone who also gets to wear a fancy hat.”

“Yeah.”

“And–and someone who lives in the Keep.”

Varric spreads his hands. “That’s generally what I’d prefer, yeah. How else are you gonna keep an eye on me?” 

Hawke levels an incredulous stare at Varric, and Varric all but shakes under the intensity of it. His heart quivers in his chest. Varric can feel sweat beading up under his collar. 

“So, whaddya say, Hawke?” he asks quietly. Varric takes the three steps to the bed and sits at the mattress’ edge, hand splayed open between them. “You’ve always been my best man,” Varric murmurs. “Why not make that the truth now?” 

Hawke bites his lip. “You’re asking me to marry you,” he says, deadpan, “and we haven’t even dated yet.” 

The laugh that bubbles out of Varric’s chest surprises even him. “Your favorite color is the queer green-blue of the sea. You hate boats to the point that, after fleeing Kirkwall, you ignored Isabela’s offer and went west instead, sneaking through Nevarra and Orlais. You like smokey Rivaini tea.” 

“That’s the easy stuff.”

Varric holds up his hand. “Your middle name is Malcolm, but you haven’t used it since your father died, and tell folks instead that it’s Maxwell, for your great-great uncle.” 

“Varric.”

His jovial smile softens to something more honest, more raw. “You haven’t told anyone but me your mother’s last words.”

_“Varric--”_

“And,” Varric says, his smile slipping entirely, “I know you didn’t actually kill Anders back then. I watched you do it, but you missed, deliberately, so he and Justice could have a chance.”

“Varric. You’re asking me to–to marry you. For real.”

“Hawke.” Varric slides from the bed to pull open the bedside table and withdraws a small box. “You’re my best friend,” he says solemnly, “and I don’t say that lightly. You know me better than probably any other person.” 

Varric climbs back onto the bed and opens the box to reveal a simple silverite ring, embossed with the sigil of House Tethras. He places it between them and watches as Hawke stares at it, entranced. 

“So,” Varric says, as the silence stretches between them, “what do you say to a new adventure?”

“I…” Hawke takes a deep, shuddering breath before looking up again. His eyes are unreadable, and something in that dark gaze makes Varric’s stomach flutter. “Tell me about Bianca Davri.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite and appreciate feedback, including:
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